


Love is Weird

by DanikaJA



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Family, Multichapter, PTSD, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:55:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27561853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DanikaJA/pseuds/DanikaJA
Summary: Post-Mockingjay. Slightly canon-divergent; the timeline has been sped up, and I've changed a few key elements, but I've tried to stay faithful to the characters.  Work in progress.  This work was originally published on another site in 2019.
Kudos: 2





	1. One

...

"Rosie, go inside."

My mother's voice cracks like ice on a frozen pond. My head snaps up, seeking the source of her alarm. She's gone rigid, and her hands are shaking, fingers flexing, grasping for something... something that isn't there. Her eyes are fixed on some point in the distance; I can't help but take a few steps nearer, leaning around her and straining my eyes, hoping to see what she sees.

"Rosie! Go, now!"

It's been awhile since I heard that note of desperation; I know, vaguely, what it means. Leaving my mother rooted where she stands, I drop my garden tools and run for the house, calling for my father.

"Dad! Dad, it's happening again!"

From somewhere within the bowels of the kitchen, I hear him swear. He meets me in the doorway, having abandoned whatever he's been kneading, scrubbing his hands on his apron as he starts purposefully, cautiously across the yard.

"Rosie, go inside."

His voice is calm. It always is. I don't obey. I never do. I wait, tense with anticipation and not a small amount of fear. Usually, he can bring her back to us, but not always. Sometimes, he goes too. That's when I get my brother and run to the neighbor's house.

"It's not real..." I hear him start to say, but the words die on his lips as he, too, fixes his eyes on that distant point.

His gaze I trust, and I follow it out to the edge of our property, where the treeline begins to encroach on the yard. For the first time, I see the man standing there, in the shadow of the big tree. He seems to have sprouted from the earth, with his dark hair and olive skin. I don't know him; he could be any man from the Seam, though he doesn't dress like one.

"You shouldn't be here," my mother speaks, and it takes me a moment to realize that she's not talking to me, but to the man. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you," he says, he voice rough and soft at once, pitched low, as though speaking to a cornered animal.

"I told you I never wanted to see you again."

My mother sounds like she's about to cry; the man seems unperturbed.

"I know," he sighs, and looks for the first time beyond my mother, to my father.

To me.

"Don't! Don't you dare!"

It happens all at once; my mother flies at the man like a wildcat, but before he can do more than stumble back a step or two, my father intercedes, closing the gap with his lurching gait and catching her around the waist with an unyielding arm.

"Katniss, stop," he commands, voice steady.

"He can't! He can't be here! He has no right!"

My mother is screaming now, and sobbing, fighting my father every step he drags her back. He pleads with her softly but firmly, gently adjusting and readjusting what I know to be an iron grip.

"Stop. Katniss, please. Please stop. You know he has every right."

My mother recoils from those final words as though she's been slapped, and she jerks free of my father's grasp. My breath catches in my throat as she swings at my father's jaw, her open hand connecting with a sharp pop. His eyes darken; it's only for a moment, but it's long enough that my feet take several faltering steps backward of their own accord. As his fists bunch at his sides, my mother seems to realize what she's done, stumbling back with a soft gasp.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Peeta, I'm sorry..."

She bolts for the woods; it is perhaps the most sane thing she's done all morning. The strange man looks as though he might follow her; but my father is coming back to himself.

"Don't! Gale, don't. Let her go," he manages to grit out.

My father's eyes fasten on mine, and I see them soften. I see the tension go out of his shoulders, and his hands go slack. I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding.

"Rosie. Rosie it's all right; it's safe. I promise."

I know it's true. I run to him, and he holds me. He always keeps me safe; always. I don't cry. A heartbeat passes; my father clears his throat, and I step back. The stranger is standing much nearer now, but still looks just as lost.

"Rosie, this is Gale Hawthorne. He's a friend of your mother's from the war... and from before."

It's not a lie, exactly, but something about this introduction rings hollow. It's like a nut picked clean; it's missing all the meat. I extend my hand anyway.

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Hawthorne. I'm Primrose Mellark."

He doesn't shake hands like a man from the Seam, either. His grip is firm, to be sure. The hand, calloused in all the right places. But he's hesitant. Uncertain. Afraid. A thousand unfathomable things flicker across his expression and are gone again in an instant.

"You look just like your mother," he says hoarsely.

I say nothing, scrubbing my hand with the tail of my shirt.

"Let's go inside, Rosie. Your mom... will probably be gone awhile."

My father sounds suddenly very tired.

…


	2. Two

…

He lets me ice his swelling jaw; my mother is a force to be reckoned with. When he sends me upstairs with my brother's breakfast, I know he that means for me to stay there. But my younger sibling is content with cheese buns and carved wooden animals, so I return to the kitchen and busy myself with the washing, steadfastly ignoring my father's frown.

"I should have called," Mr. Hawthorne is saying, by way of an apology he doesn't really mean.

"After that outburst, I can understand why you didn't," my father responds curtly, but not unkindly. "It's good to see you."

"Is it?" Mr. Hawthorne snorts derisively.

"You're a friend."

"You and I both know that I haven't been a friend in a very long time."

"Then what are you doing here?"

Mr. Hawthorne hesitates a long time, and I find my hands slacking in their work. I scrub the dishes slowly, idly, more intent upon the answer than the task.

"I had to see her," he says finally, carefully, as though measuring each word.

I hear my father inhale, slowly. Exhale, just as slowly. He's measuring too.

"Why now, Gale? It's been more than a decade."

My father's tone is not accusing, but Mr. Hawthorne is defensive anyway.

"Isn't that enough? More than a decade, Peeta! I couldn't..." he seems to catch himself after his initial outburst, glancing in my direction and lowering his voice. "I used to be able to hold a picture in my mind, you know? Of how she was. But it was fading. And I couldn't stand it anymore."

Many men have cried at the kitchen table in my home. Mr. Hawthorne's tears don't phase me. But my father's response does; my father always offers a word of comfort, or even an embrace, to those who weep here. But not for this man. I can't help it. I turn, and meet my father's eyes.

Who is this man? What has he done?

My father regards me for a long time; finally, he bites his lip and sighs, putting a hand on Mr. Hawthorne's shoulder.

"This isn't something I can do for her. We have to wait her out—" Mr. Hawthorne scoffs, and my father continues in a slightly more irritated tone, "—or try to find her."

Mr. Hawthorne stands, then, plucking his jacket from where it's been draped over the back of a chair.

"I can do that. Find her, I mean."

"No," my father's sigh is longsuffering, as though they've had this conversation hundreds of times before. "No, you can't. She would just run from you. It has to be me. Or maybe Haymitch."

"Haymitch!?" Mr. Hawthorne squawks incredulously.

"Maybe," my father reiterates, pensively drumming his fingers on the tabletop. "Rosie."

I can't help but startle when addressed; I shouldn't have been in the room to begin with.

"Y-yes?" I'm annoyed when my voice falters.

"Please put some extra bedding and towels in one of the spare rooms for Gale—er, for Mr. Hawthorne. He'll be staying the night, at least."

"No. Peeta, no, you don't have to do that—" My father stills the man's objections with a raised hand.

"It could be days, Gale. You of all people should know that. Stay."

Mr. Hawthorne's eyes dart between my father and I; he looks very uncomfortable.

"Rosie," my father's hand at the small of my back propels me toward the hall, and the stairs. "One of the spare rooms, please."

I am confused and suspicious and curious all at once; I drag my feet to stall for time.

"Dad," I whisper as I start to mount the stairs, "What's going on? Why can't we just wait? We always wait."

"Rosie, no questions now. I need you to help look after your brother, just for a bit. I'll call grandma if I think it's going to take awhile to find your mom."

I turn then, dissatisfied, and stubbornly plant my feet on the stair above him, folding my arms across my chest.

"We always wait," I insist.

"Rosie..." my father sighs and takes my hands in his. "Certain things can't wait... and some people have waited long enough."

…


	3. Three

…

My father always keeps me safe. But it's uncomfortable being alone in the house with just this stranger and my younger brother while he and Haymitch spend the lion's share their days out looking for my mother. He eats. He sleeps. He paces around the edges of our lives, like game he's not ready or willing to flush out—watching us, but not too closely. He stays out of the way while I keep my charge fed, clothed, and occupied. I sometimes catch him smirking at Finn's antics, but the smile flickers and dies if he notices that I have seen.

You look just like your mother, he had said. And it seemed to pain him.

I'm relieved when my grandma arrives; my burden is lifted. She embraces my father warmly and murmurs soft words of comfort and encouragement. She cuddles my brother and tickles his round stomach until he shrieks with laughter. She strokes my hair, tenderly. I don't know why she and my mother have always been somewhat cold towards one another. I know better than to ask.

Rosie, no questions now. No questions, ever.

But when I see how she treats Gale Hawthorne—that is, as though an early frost has crept into my home and settled in the walls—I find myself almost willing to risk the rebuke I know will follow my childish question. Almost.

…


	4. Four

…

My father's nightmares are always so much worse when my mother is gone. I lie awake, unable to sleep for his tossing and turning and whimpering. I can hear him cry out in the night, and she is not there to comfort him. I consider going to him, but I'm afraid, and I hate myself for it. For a treacherous moment, I hate my mother too. Then, swiping away hot tears of shame, I pad quietly down the stairs in the pre-dawn light to put the kettle on.

I can hear soft whistling from the sitting room; a familiar and eerie four-note melody is that is forbidden in this house. I remember that there's someone else to hate.

"Not that! Stop it!" I hiss furiously, and the whistling cuts off abruptly.

"I'm sorry," comes the hushed response; I hear him rise and start for the kitchen. "I didn't know anyone else was awake."

I feel suddenly very small and alone as Mr. Hawthorne looms in the doorway, and I rush to fill the silence.

"We don't sing that, here," I say, my voice wobbling more than I would like.

"I'm sorry; I didn't know." The apology seems genuine. "Can't sleep?"

I nod.

"Nightmares. Not mine."

"No," he says softly, "No, they wouldn't be."

I can hear the water in the kettle starting to bubble, and I turn to whisk it from the stovetop before it too decides to start whistling. I pour enough hot water into the teapot for two, adding a measured scoop of my mother's soothing herbal blend. I put out a cup for him, as though I'd always meant to. My hands shake, and I don't know why.

"Sugar?" I ask, and my voice cracks.

"No, thank you."

A beat.

"Rosie, are you okay?"

"Are you really my mom's friend?" I blurt suddenly, unable to contain myself.

It's difficult to read his expression in the dim kitchen, but I hear him swallow heavily.

"I was, a long time ago. Not anymore."

"Why does she hate you?"

A sharp intake of breath preceeds a measured response.

"I hurt a lot of people, during the war."

"Killed them, you mean. So did my mom and dad. But no one hates them."

He moves from the doorway and sits down at the table; now that he is closer I can see that his brow is furrowed.

"No, this was different. I mean, yes, I killed people, but... some of the people who died... well, they shouldn't have. And they wouldn't have, if it wasn't for me. I wasn't even there, but it was still my fault."

His words echo my mothers so closely it aches; I've listened countless times as my parents fight and rage and soothe one another over their survivor's guilt. He is just one more survivor, then.

"If you weren't even there, how could it be your fault? Lots of people die in wars."

"Has your mom ever taken you hunting?"

The abrupt change of subject is disorienting.

"Y-yes, but... she can't shoot, anymore. Her hands shake. And she can set the snares, but my dad has to check them."

He nods; I seem to have settled something for him.

"If you set the snare and walk away, but a rabbit gets caught in it anyway, is it still your fault?"

"I suppose," I give my answer warily.

"It was like that, then. I set the snare. I wasn't there when Prim died, but I killed her just the same."

Prim. Primrose. Primrose Everdeen. Primrose Mellark.

"My aunt. I'm named for her. That was you?"

The sun is rising now, and even as color fills the morning sky I can see it draining from his face.

"Yes," he whispers, "But I don't think your parents would be very happy with me for telling you that."

"No one tells me anything," I say without meaning to, and I clap my hands over my mouth.

His mouth screws up on one side in half of a sad smile.

"Just like your mom," he mutters.

"Gale, that's enough. No more."

My father's words are quiet, but they crack like thunder in the quiet kitchen; I hadn't even heard him come down. Mr. Hawthorne's face is ashen; he looks like he might be sick.

"Peeta, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"I think it might be time for you to go."

"No! Dad, that's not fair! I was asking questions," I find myself protesting, though I should hate this man who's taken so much from my family.

"Questions he knew better than to answer," my father's voice is tight with anger.

"No, Dad, listen," I step between my father and Mr. Hawthorne, holding up my hands in protest. "I've read the book; I already know what happened to Aunt Prim. I just didn't know it was him."

My father is staring at my outstretched hands, and his eyes are filling with tears. Suddenly he pulls me to him in a tight embrace, and I can feel him shaking. I don't understand, but I hug him anyway.

"Book? What book?"

Mr. Hawthorne doesn't seem to know when to shut up. Thankfully, my father's anger seems to have dissipated. He draws a deep breath before answering.

"It's like the Everdeen's plant book, but for memories. Katniss and I, we... we made it together. To remember the ones we lost. We add photographs, or sometimes I'll do a portrait. And happy things. So we don't forget. Haymitch has added some we never even knew."

"That sounds... really nice," Mr. Hawthorne says, earnestly.

"It is," I say, pulling away from my father. "Dad, can we show him? Please?"

"Yeah; yeah Rosie, let's do that."

…


	5. Five

…

We're still hovering over the memory book when Haymitch blows in, goosedown fluttering from his clothes, smelling just faintly of moonshine.

"Got her! She's up a goddamned tree."

"Of course she is."

I can't tell whether my father or Mr. Hawthorne sounds more exasperated.

"Show me, Haymitch," my father says, hauling himself out of his seat and settling his prosthetic more firmly in place.

"It's not a long walk. It's actually just at the edge of town, right along where the old fenceline used to be," Haymitch is saying.

I feel suddenly desperate to see my mother; it's been almost a week. I catch my father's sleeve.

"Dad. Can I come? I'll stay back, I promise."

My father hesitates; Mr. Hawthorne rests a hand on his shoulder.

"I'll stay back with her; I can't get too close anyway."

Silently, the two men seem to arrive at an agreement, and my father nods.

"You'll stay back," he repeats, with a look in his eye that brooks no argument.

…


	6. Six

…

Crouching in the undergrowth is familiar, even if the man to whom my father has entrusted me is not entirely so. My mother likes the woods, and has taken me there often. Sometimes the woods are where she feels the safest. Like now, when she can't quite remember when or where she is.

"Katniss. Katniss it's me. It's Peeta," my father calls to her softly, not wanting to startle her.

Her eyes fix on him immediately, wide but not wild.

"You're angry at me. Real or not real?" she calls down from her perch.

"Not real."

"No one is chasing me. Real or not real?"

"Just me, sweetheart," Haymitch snarks.

"Shut up, Haymitch," my father growls. "Real, Katniss. No one is chasing you. The games are over. The war is over. I'm here; Rosie too. Finn is with your mother."

"My mother is here?"

"Real. She came down to help with the kids while we looked for you."

"Rosie?"

I had promised my father; but my mother's voice pulls me to my feet like I'm a marionette on strings. I'm quick, too; I can feel the slight breeze past my elbow as Mr. Hawthorne makes a grab for it and misses.

"Mom! Mom, I'm here!"

I'm standing up and waving my arms, and she sees me and she's smiling. She knows me, and she's coming back to us.

"Rosie! Rosie stop, stay back," Mr. Hawthorne catches up at last, restraining me gently with his hands on my shoulders.

Terror shutters my mother's smile, and for a moment I'm afraid she's gone again. But then she's screaming... screaming for me, and scrambling down out of the tree.

"Rosie! Rosie! Peeta, don't let him take her! He has her and he's taking her for the Reaping!"

Mr. Hawthorne recoils from me as though I'd burned him.

"What!?" he cries, aghast.

Suddenly she's on the ground and charging towards us; distantly, I am aware that my father is shouting at me to run. Run? Run where? Mr. Hawthorne shoves me abruptly to one side, and find myself stumbling in that direction. My father catches me; I know it's him, and I know I'm safe.

"You can't take her, she's my daughter!"

I look; I can't help it. But Mr. Hawthorne isn't running away; he's not afraid. He's standing his ground, and he looks furious.

"Is that what you think!?" He's shouting. "That I want to take her!? Goddamnit, Katniss, I just want to know her!"

"Haymitch! Haymitch, take her, get her out of here!"

My father is half carrying me, half dragging me, handing me over to his old mentor to be spirited away to safety. He's going back; I'm not sure for whom.

"Time to go, sweetheart," Haymitch mutters. "You don't want to see this."

But I do. I really, really do. He's pulling me away, but I crane my neck to see.

"Gale, get back!"

My father's cry is too late; she's on him, and she's hitting him, and screaming. She wants to kill him, I can tell. But she doesn't have a weapon, and he's head and shoulders taller, and he's fighting back.

May the odds be ever in your favor.

"You can't take her! You can't have her!"

"You've had her all to yourself for twelve fucking years, Katniss!"

"She's not yours! She's not yours, you can't have her!"

"I'm not trying to take her, you stupid—!"

"Katniss! Gale! Stop!"

"She's my daughter!"

"She's my daughter, too!"

The screams slowly fade as Haymitch drags me home.

…


	7. Seven

…

I'm numb; my grandma is talking to me, asking me questions, looking me over like a patient in one of her hospitals.

"Rosie. Rosie, baby, are you hurt? Shh, shh, it's all right, don't cry, they'll get it sorted out..."

"—got her out of there as fast as I could," Haymitch is saying.

My face is being dabbed with something cool.

"They should never have taken her down there in the first place. It was reckless, and foolhardy—!"

I'm in the bathtub; I can hear Finn downstairs, laughing—probably playing with Haymitch. Grandma gently scrubs my back and washes my hair, making soothing sounds all the while.

"Grandma," my voice sounds like it's coming from someone else. "Is she going to kill him?"

"No. No baby, she's not going to kill him. She's just confused. She loves him very much."

She loves him very much.

…


	8. Eight

…

Love is weird.

Johanna says it all the time. Johanna, who doesn't have anyone to love anymore... or so she says. But she's right. Love is weird; I know it in my bones as I look down at my daughter's sleeping face. Love makes people do crazy things; it makes them say yes when they should say no. I should have said no, today, when Rosie asked to come along. But she is so young and full of hope, and I love her so much it aches... and I said yes, instead. Gale had offered to protect her, and I thought that would be enough. And it was. Sort of.

Rosie is whimpering in her sleep; I brush a lock of her dark hair back from her face and press a kiss to her temple, and she settles.

"I'll sit with her," Clara's voice in the doorway startles me. "You go down and try to clean up some of your mess."

My mother-in-law has already given me the dressing-down of my life; Katniss is kidding herself whenever she says that she's nothing like her mother.

"Yes ma'am," I say softly, lightly stepping out of the room.

She stops me with a firm hand on my arm.

"This isn't a game, Peeta. None of you are children, anymore."

I shouldn't have tried to lighten the mood; now is not the time. I lay my hand over hers.

"I'm sorry. Thank you. I'll do my best."

She doesn't appear to be terribly reassured.

…


	9. Nine

…

"I fucked up," Gale groans into his hands, elbows propped up on the table.

"You think?" Haymitch snipes, and for the second time today, I feel the urge to hit him.

"Haymitch, would you please just shut up—" I start, exasperated, but he interrupts.

"What, don't I get any say at all? I love that little girl," he seems genuine, but he's drunk.

Inhale. Exhale. Real. Not real.

"However, if we're assigning blame, then I think Peeta should get the high score, here, because he's the one who told the little darling she could tag along in the first place..."

My fist on the table rattles the glassware and seems to sober Haymitch a bit. He stands, tips us a hat he isn't wearing, and slinks towards the door.

"You're welcome, by the way," he says, nodding towards the sitting room where Katniss is sleeping off a sedative.

"Thank you, Haymitch. Goodbye, Haymitch," I say, as he lets himself out at last.

"I should have been holding onto her... and then I should have just let her go," Gale says, filling the silence left by Haymitch's absence.

"No; Haymitch is right. You shouldn't have needed to. I'm her father; it's my job to protect her."

What I'm saying is as natural to me as breathing, and as much as I can see that it guts him, I'm unable to stop myself from saying it. It's true. I force myself to continue.

"I'm grateful, though. That you did what you could. She could have been hurt, because of me. She wasn't, because of you."

He raises his head to look at me, grey eyes searching. Grey eyes with flecks of blue; flecks you'd only notice if you were closer than skin... or an artist with an eye for detail.

Rosie's eyes.

"You're grateful; to me. After what I did?" his tone is bitter.

The twist of pain is not so sharp now as it once was; I've had twelve years of sloppy kisses and sleepy cuddles, sticky hands and scraped knees to take the edge off. And there's Finn, too. Precious, golden Finn who would never have been more than a dream if Rosie hadn't stolen Katniss' heart and changed her mind.

"Immensely," I murmur, startling both of us. "I wouldn't have a family at all if it wasn't for you."

"But I..." he blinks and gapes, bewildered. "You have every reason to hate me."

I'm shaking my head.

"Gale, I don't hate you. I've been jealous of you, sure. Wanted to be you. Katniss Everdeen's first love!" He rolls his eyes, at that. "I'm serious. She's always loved you; she has never stopped. The Games made it hard. The Quell made it harder. The war... and Prim... well, that made it almost impossible. But... still. Probably the only person she loves more than you is Rosie."

"Are you kidding!? She took off for a week when I showed up, Peeta. She's terrified of me. I'm a monster, to her."

"So am I."

Gale just stares.

"Did I do the right thing? Leaving? Even with..." he swallows heavily, "Even with Rosie?"

His pain is palpable; it throbs in the air like a heartbeat.

"What else could you have done?" I demand. "She'd just assassinated Coin; her entire justification for doing so was that Coin used your plan to destroy the last of the Capitol's morale. You couldn't stay with her; Katniss can't keep a secret to save her life. Either she would have killed you or they would have; I'm not sure which would have been worse. Either way it would have destroyed her. It was better to distance yourself and let it die down. Taking the job in Two was smart. What else could you have done?"

"But I left her... I left her, and I knew..."

"You knew she had me. And you're not stupid, Gale. You knew the show wasn't over. The show is never over. People want bread, sure, but they want the circus, too. The rebels would never have forgiven Katniss and me if we didn't at least... try."

You never get off this train.

"But you love her? Even knowing how she feels... that Rosie isn't yours..."

"Of course I do!" I burst out, and Gale has the grace to appear abashed.

How could I not? Love is weird. Inhale, exhale. Real, not real.

After a moment, I shrug helplessly.

"Love is weird," this time I say it out loud. "I love her, I love Rosie. You love her, you love Rosie. She loves you; she loves me. It's all just different kinds of love, I think."

"Well, right now I hate you both."

Katniss' snarl drags us back to the present; suddenly she's awake, stumbling into the kitchen to rummage loudly through the cupboards.

"I need a drink."

...


End file.
